Seashells By The Seashore
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Fantastically far-fetched, hopelessly romantic. More Clarisse and Joseph - and more and more until they finally take out a restraining order against me, ha ha!
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own these characters or anything Princess Diaries-related. I just really like Clarisse and Joe, and enjoy spending time with them._

_Thanks to whomever first came up with Romero for Joe's last name. I don't know who you are, but I like it, and since it seems to be quite common, I am borrowing it for this story._

At the age of sixteen, Joe Romero became a believer in love at first sight.

It was at the end of the first day of the Orange Blossom Festival. He and his family joined the informal celebration that had moved to the beach following the afternoon's organized festivities. Lanterns were strung along the pier, bonfire pits hosted circles of singers and guitar players, torches lit up the pathways crossing the dunes. Joe took it all in, but eventually wandered away from his parents and three sisters and the rest of the crowd, desiring a solitary walk along the shoreline.

He ended up near the bungalows that were usually occupied by wealthy families on holiday. The quiet seaside town was not an overly popular destination, more of a well-kept secret. It was charming enough, with a thriving economy along the beach and, not too far inland, fragrant groves of orange trees.

She was standing on the porch of one of the bungalows that overlooked the ocean. She was tall and lithe with long blonde hair that was shimmering silver in the moonlight. She leaned her forearms on the railing of the porch, and the ocean breeze tousled her hair and rippled her light blue eyelet sundress around her knees. She was beautiful and…sad. Joe was so enchanted by the sight of her, he didn't realize he had stopped walking right in front of the bungalow and was openly staring at her. He was startled when he finally noticed she was staring back.

The sadness had melted away and a smile lit up her face as brightly as the full moon above them. She was dazzling, and despite his embarrassment at being caught, he could not look away.

The girl spoke first.

"What's the matter? Have I got something stuck in my teeth?"

He blinked at her. Even with her teasing, the sound of her voice was like music, and for a few moments, he did not register her words. She misunderstood his silence.

"Of course, you speak Spanish. Hmm, let's see, what is the word for 'stuck'? Um, _Yo tengo comida en los dientes?_" She laughed, and the sound swept through his soul. "What can I say, my French is better. Do you think I am crazy? _Lo siento. No hablo espanol muy bien. Pero lo estudio_," she promised.

Still, Joe was unable to speak a word. The girl's confidence began to falter, and she gave a self-conscious laugh. "Oh, I do think I have offended you. I'm just not sure in which language."

Joe's English was perfect, and he finally remembered some of it. "You have not offended me. I am sorry for staring. You are beautiful. I forgot myself for a moment."

The girl's scintillating smile returned and her eyes shone with excitement. "You speak English! I am so glad, my Spanish is appalling, and I don't have anyone to talk to. Are you coming from the party?"

"Yes." Joe felt that was too short of an answer, but couldn't think of anything else to say.

"And you live nearby? I mean, you're from here?"

"I am."

"Are you my age?"

"Sixteen."

"Close enough! I turned fifteen just, well, recently. How long does the party go on?"

"The festival lasts all week. Tonight, the party on the beach will probably go on a few more hours."

"How fun! We don't have anything like this in the town where I live." Something inside the bungalow made the girl turn around, and when she turned back to Joe, she looked alarmed. She put her finger to her lips and motioned with her other hand for him to come toward her. Her hushed command intrigued him and set his heart pounding. He hurried across the expanse of sand that separated them as she hastened down the steps to meet him halfway.

"Sorry, my parents are trying to spend a nice, quiet evening before turning in," she said, her eyes round and incredulous. "Can you believe it? That's the story of every single other night of our lives."

"And what would you like to do, _senorita_?" Joe asked. He felt breathless, not from the short jog, but from the nearness of this girl who had to be an angel.

"I want to go to the party. It isn't a private one, is it?"

"No, no, not at all. Just people who aren't ready to call it a night, moving onto the beach. The first and last days of the festival are the biggest."

"But you don't want to go to the party," she stated as fact. "You were walking away from it."

Joe shrugged. "Just taking a break for a short stroll," he said, managing to sound nonchalant. He would go anywhere she wanted. He would follow her to the ends of the earth, but even in his smitten, youthful exuberance, he knew that was a little too intense to share at a first meeting.

The girl eyed him carefully, trying to decipher his true feelings. "Well, I don't want to intrude. I shouldn't keep you." Despite her pronouncement, she kept him. "Where were you going to end up?"

"There's an old pier less than half a kilometer from here. I was going to turn back around when I got there." He watched her as she looked down the deserted length of beach and knew she was considering the prudence of taking a walk with a strange boy. "But it was just to get away. My sisters were annoying me." For the first time, he gave her his typical grin, unleashing the full power of his charm on her. She was too adept at maintaining her composure; he had no idea that she nearly swooned. "If you'd like to go to the party, I will walk with you."

With barely a glance over her shoulder toward the cottage (where her parents thought she was sleeping), she tossed composure out the window, linked her arm through his, and practically dragged him back toward the path he had taken along the edge of the water. "I would love to!"

* * *

Joe thought he might burst with pride, escorting the attractive girl as they wove around the beach fires. Her lively eyes sparkled with the lights from the fires and lanterns, and her whole being glowed with happiness. Her delight with everything she heard and saw made him wonder how often she was stuck at home for nice, quiet evenings. People pulled out food from baskets to roast on fires, as well as baked goods and fruits and candies she had never heard of. There was more than enough to share, and as they mingled among Joe's acquaintances and neighbors, she tried anything that was offered to her. While they made their way through the crowd, the need for introductions arose, and Joe learned the girl's name was Clara.

They finally ended up next to a man with a guitar who sat off by himself, completely absorbed in the complicated melody he commanded from his instrument. The girl marveled at his artistry and dexterity, and whenever he did something particularly remarkable, she would gasp and turn to Joe to see if he was as impressed as she was.

"Do you know how to dance to this?" Clara asked when the man switched to an upbeat _sevillana_.

"Yes, do you?"

She shook her head. "I'm taking lessons, but we haven't tried anything like this yet."

Joe held out his hand to her. "Can I show you?" He surprised himself with his boldness, considering he had been unable to even speak to her before.

She looked at his hand, hesitating…but only for a moment. Then she gave him another one of those sublime smiles and grasped his hand, somehow firmly and delicately at the same time.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Earlier, you said I was beautiful," she explained, finally acknowledging the compliment he had given her; blushing and modestly averting her eyes as she did so.

"Thank you for being patient while I tried to find my voice."

They laughed giddily, at each other, at themselves, at the thrilling novelty of their meeting. Happily, Joe pulled Clara to himself and into the rhythm of the music.

* * *

After dancing all evening at a party that was a feast for the senses, Clara was exhausted, but euphoric. They made their way back toward the cottage, swaying into and away from each other as they staggered along the surf, their sandals hooked over their fingers. Joe felt he was floating on air.

"Tell me," Joe said, his bashfulness completely overcome, "why you were sad when I first saw you."

Clara was quiet, and he thought he might have crossed a line. He was relieved when she started talking, although he noticed she selected her words carefully.

"This holiday is sort of the last chapter of volume one of my life. Lots of things are going to change when we get back home."

"And the changes are bad?"

"There isn't really a way to tell if they will be good or bad, but they will certainly be…big." She looked at him, and though her expression was serious, she smiled. "There will be no going back from them." She stopped to stare out over the ocean. She crossed her arms, her sandals hanging down from one hand. Her stance made her look far away and closed off, as though she were used to keeping a myriad secrets behind an unreadable face. "No more going back to places like these," she said, breaking the silence that had enveloped her for the first time all night. She turned back to him, and when he caught her eye, all the walls came back down.

"What sort of place is this that you won't be coming back to it?"

Clara dropped her arms and, swinging them out to the side, chucked her shoes up onto the sand. "Real." She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and spun in a graceful circle. Her coordination was no match for the hours of sensory overload, the exhilarating sense of freedom, and the fact that her eyes were shut. Two spins, and she was stumbling forward.

"Clara!" Joe shouted, diving to catch her before she hit the water swooshing up around her calves. He caught her, but could not break her momentum, and they both tumbled into the cold water. Just as they hit the ground, a big wave rushed forward and broke over their heads, leaving them sputtering and laughing and splashing. Thoughts of the future beyond that moment flew far away from either of them.

* * *

That was on Sunday night. By Tuesday evening, Clara was comfortable with the idea of accompanying Joe on the walk to the lonely pier, and on Wednesday afternoon, Joe ditched school to show her around the village. On Thursday, they spent almost the entire day together. They started with a late brunch at the locals' favorite café, then headed to the festival. He took her via the scenic route, through a grove of blossoming orange trees. Everything they saw pleased her immensely, but the walk through the orange grove was her favorite part of the day. She plucked blossoms off the trees to study them in the palm of her hand, then Joe tucked them into her hair along her headband. For the rest of his life, Joe would not be able to smell the heady scent of orange blossoms without thinking of Clara.

Walking back to the cottage in the late afternoon, they passed a small gift shop. A glimpse of something in the window caused Clara to veer off course into the shop. Joe was still talking to her as he walked along, unaware that his companion had left him. The proprietor of the boutique next door was outside sweeping; at the sight of the young man seemingly chatting to himself, he stopped and leaned against the broom handle with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Joe noticed the look the man gave him, then realized he was alone. He swung around to see where Clara had gone, and saw no trace of her. He turned back to the man with the broom, who nodded his head in the direction of the gift shop. "She went in there."

Joe rolled his eyes. "_Gracias_," he said before retracing his steps.

He found her at a counter, perusing a display of necklaces with seashell pendants. Her eyes brightened when she saw him approaching. "Look at these!"

"Didn't you miss me?"

"Didn't you see me come in?"

"No. You're hard to keep track of, do you know?"

A strange look clouded her eyes. "At home, everyone keeps tabs on me. I'm going to have a bodyguard when I get back." She made a face, but couldn't mask the depth of her displeasure.

Joe was taken aback. "Why will you need a bodyguard?"

Clara shrugged. "Let's just say, my father has recently elevated his position in society." Her vague answer held a note of finality. Joe started to ask more questions anyway, but thought better of it. He sensed he was privy to her thoughts and attention in a way few others were, and he didn't want to jeopardize that.

"Joe," she whispered excitedly. "Let's each get one of these. Matching ones! I know you won't want to wear it, but just to keep so you'll remember me."

"There is no chance I will forget you, Clara."

She leaned into him, briefly resting her head on his shoulder. "You are very sweet. Joe?"

"Yes?"

"May I call you Joseph?" she asked, righting herself again to keep looking through the selection of seashell jewelry.

"You will be the only one."

She paused in her perusing to arch an elegant eyebrow at him. "Good," she said saucily. He laughed, and wondered for the hundredth time about this girl who seemed at once so young and so grown-up.

"I don't know about these." He cast his eyes around dramatically, looking out for the owner of the shop. At this, Clara's curiosity was piqued, and she delightedly leaned toward him. He lowered his voice. "You see, these are for the tourists. This shell here? You cannot even find it on the beaches around here. We can make our own."

Clara sucked in her breath gleefully. "Can we really? You know how to make these?"

"I do." She was enthralled by everything he did and said and showed her. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life making her happy.

At the age of sixteen, Joe Romero had found the girl he wanted to marry.

* * *

Clara had to put in an appearance at the bungalow on Thursday night, mostly to pretend to go to bed, but after her parents had settled in for another nice, quiet evening, she slipped out to meet Joe for what had become their nightly walk to the pier. They sat at the end of the pier with their legs swinging back and forth over the water. They talked and held hands while the moon, now waning but still quite full, shone nearly as brightly as the midday sun.

After awhile, only Clara was talking. Joe listened quietly as he watched her mouth forming each word gracefully, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Finally, he realized she was quiet, too, and when he moved his gaze from her lips to her eyes, he saw she was looking at him shyly. She hadn't been shy once since they met, and suddenly he knew she was wondering the same thing he was. He searched her face for a hint of objection, and finding none, he leaned in to press his mouth against hers.

At the age of sixteen, Joe Romero became convinced of the existence of heaven on earth.

They sat in the moonlit night, kissing sweetly and sincerely, and having no idea that Clara's father had decided to see where it was his daughter was disappearing to each night.

* * *

Joe didn't see any sign of life coming from the bungalow on Friday morning. He frowned, unsure of what to do. He had not met Clara's parents, and though he was short on details, he knew they were extremely strict. He didn't want to knock on the door or be caught peeking into windows. So he hovered nearby, keeping an eye on the porch.

By lunch time, no one had emerged from the cottage. He was certain that if Clara were able, she would have found a way to keep their date. He was worried about what could have kept her, but more worried still about causing trouble for her. He saw no point in returning to school, so instead he went on to the festival, in hopes that she had accompanied her parents there.

He walked back and forth along the beach in front of the cottage all evening.

Finally, on one of his many returns from the old pier, he saw Clara standing on the porch. His heart clenched when he saw the desolate look on her face. He ran up to see her.

"Clara?"

She looked up at the sound of his voice. The relief and joy at seeing him did not entirely erase the sadness. "Oh, thank heaven! I was afraid you would have given up on me."

"Never," he said solemnly. "I would wait forever." The fervor in his response brought a smile from her. "Are you okay? Don't tell me you are because I can see you are not."

Her lower lip trembled slightly, and she caught it between her teeth. "I angered my father. He's had me under house arrest all day. I've been waiting for him and my mother to get hungry enough so he would abandon his post as warden." As she spoke, her face and mood lightened. "How are you on time? I don't have much of it myself."

"I have all the time there is," he declared. "But tell me something first: Is this my fault?"

Clara considered her response carefully before putting it into words. Finally, she looked him in the eye. "No," she said. "It is not. I am the only one to blame. But it's a long story, and I don't want to spend what little time I have left here thinking about it." She gave him a wide, impish grin. "Distract me, Joseph."

He allowed himself to be convinced by her answer, even though he knew she wasn't telling him the whole truth. Besides, something else was nagging him.

"What do you mean, the little time you have left here?"

Her composure slipped briefly. For a second, he saw pain and sorrow and fear before she covered it up with a practiced expression of calm. She didn't speak right away, and he knew she was afraid of crying. "We are leaving tomorrow morning," she informed him quietly.

It wasn't as though he hadn't known it was coming, but he hadn't expected it so soon. "Tomorrow? That's the last day of the festival! The whole town will be decked out, and the party on the beach…" He trailed off hopelessly.

"I know."

They sat down side by side on the porch steps, and were quiet for a long time. After awhile, Joe reached into his pocket. "I made these last night."

She looked at his outstretched hand. Resting delicately on his palm were two seashells. They were alike in shape, but varied in color. One was black mottled with gray, and edged in silver paint; the other was golden-brown shot through with pink and trimmed in gold paint. Each one had a tiny hole carefully drilled into it, turning it into a pendant.

Clara could no longer hold back her tears. "Oh Joseph. They are the most beautiful things I have ever seen."

He gently set the shells next to him on the step, then wrapped his arms around Clara and held her while she wept.

* * *

Joe and Clara were alerted to the arrival of her parents when the porch light switched on over them. Joe stood up immediately, ready to introduce himself, as he now felt he should have done earlier in the week.

But Clara looked terrified at the prospect of letting them meet. "You can't. Joseph, you don't understand. There is nothing you could do, nothing you could say or be, that would make it all right for you to be here, to be my friend."

"What does that mean?" Too many emotions were surging through him at once, but one of them was definitely anger.

"It's nothing personal." She spoke in urgent whispers, glancing back frequently at the windows. "It's… Oh, Joseph. Please, just trust me. _Please_."

"I don't know, Clara, I -" He broke off at the sound of a man's voice, calling inside the house for Clara. Or - what was he calling her?

"Joseph, please!" She tried giving him a desperate shove toward the beach, but he didn't budge. "If you want to help me stay out of trouble, you will leave!"

That was the point he couldn't argue. If leaving meant keeping her out of trouble, that's what he would do. It didn't feel right. It felt cowardly and shady, but there was no time to do anything, except take her word for it.

In fact, there wasn't even time to leave. Heavy footsteps were approaching the door from the inside, and the man called out her name - someone's name - again. Joseph dove into the shrubs next to the steps. As the door swung open, he remembered the seashells, but there was no way for him to reach them without drawing attention to his hiding spot.

"What are you doing out here? You were to stay inside." The voice was authoritative, and somehow its quiet, level tone made it more frightening than if it had been loud and booming.

"I only needed some air, Father," he heard Clara say in an even, formal voice. If he hadn't just been standing next to her, he might have thought it was someone else - someone older and more refined than Clara. Someone just as strong, but with her passion suppressed, her exuberance withheld.

"And you are alone?" The question had no right answer, and they all knew it. If she were alone, she would be in trouble for being outside by herself in the dark. If she were not alone, well, that would have been bad for all the obvious reasons. Clara may have taken the blame on her own shoulders, but Joe knew it was because of him that she had suffered whatever punishment she had endured.

He suddenly remembered Clara saying her parents had gone out to eat, and he wondered why they hadn't taken their daughter along with them for dinner. Was that her punishment? Had she eaten today? Joseph found himself trembling with disgust.

"I wanted to take one last look at the ocean."

"That didn't answer my question."

"I don't suppose there is a point to answering it. You can see I am alone." A defiant edge crept into her voice. "I might as well get used to it. No doubt I am in for a very lonely life."

"You are in for a difficult one, that's for sure, if you cannot learn to control your use of sarcasm."

"Luckily, I think I have learned to control my sarcasm very well."

There was stony silence.

"I think it's time for you to come back inside."

"Perhaps it is." Clara's voice was more subdued now.

Joe heard Clara's light steps carry her into the house, followed by the heavier, purposeful steps of her father. The door shut firmly without the fanfare of an angry slam. The porch light turned off. He strained to hear yelling or sobbing or anything else that would indicate anger or fear. One cry of pain, one shouted word of abuse, and he would disregard Clara's pleas to trust him. All he could hear was the crashing of the waves drowning out the ominous silence coming from the bungalow.

He waited a few more minutes, then decided it was safe to leave. He emerged shamefully from the shrubbery, heading around to the steps to collect the shell pendants. They were gone.

* * *

Joe couldn't sleep that night. He was too afraid of what he had left behind. He sat up in his bed and slammed his fist into his pillow, then flung the pillow across the room. He kicked impatiently at the sheets that had tangled around his legs as he had tossed and turned.

He was a protector. He always had been. He had done it for his mother and his sisters, protecting them from his alcoholic father.

But he left Clara. Just left her there. Took her word that it would have been worse for her if he stayed, and he left her.

His stepfather, the man whom Joe regarded as his true father, found him sitting in the kitchen, his forehead and outstretched arms resting on the table.

"I sense you have a problem," he said with a trace of humor and a kind smile.

Joe drew himself up, sliding his arms back across the table. Aurelio's face softened when he saw his son had been crying. He sat down in the chair next to him.

"_Digame, hijo_."

"It's the girl, Clara."

Several different scenarios entered Aurelio's mind immediately, but he was a patient man, and in silence, waited out the few minutes it took for Joe to elaborate.

"She got in trouble for being with me. She was in trouble again tonight because her father found her outside when he got home. Before he came out, she convinced me to leave." He looked at his father with tortured eyes. "I did what she asked. I left her. I don't know what she is going through, but I am certain she is suffering."

"Are you worried about what happened to her after you left, or about what her life in general must be?"

"I don't know. Both, I think. She is so happy when she is with me, so full of life. Yet there are times when she looks frightened, vulnerable."

"From everything you have been telling us these past few days, she is not living an ordinary life. She must be someone of great importance, or at least, her parents believe she will be." He tried to make his message as gentle as possible, selecting a metaphor. "It is not easy to rescue a princess from her ivory tower."

Joe studied his father's face, and felt helplessness wash over him. "So there is nothing? If she isn't being brutalized or held against her will,…?"

"If you think she is being abused, I will leave this minute and bust down the door to the cottage and rescue her myself. Be honest with me. Tell me, Joe, what is your gut feeling? Do you believe she is in danger?"

Aurelio hadn't thought it possible, but Joe's shoulders slumped even further. "I can't be sure. I don't think she is." He looked up at Aurelio, who ached for his empathetic son, for this boy who had grown up quickly and was now wiser than he should be for his years. "My gut tells me she is safe. My heart tells me it's more than that. I don't think it's punishment she needs saving from. I think it's her life. Does that make sense?" His eyes bored into Aurelio's, pleading for understanding.

"Yes," he assured him.

"Papa, I think… I think I am in love with her. I think I am in love with a girl who does not belong to me."

Joe braced himself, expecting condescension or ridicule at his confession, but he was surprised. His father put his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulled him into a half embrace. "I believe you are, _hijo_. And I am sorry for your pain."

* * *

Genevieve was determined to meet the boy before she left. George was holed up in the small study, conducting business on the telephone. She sighed. It's how he had spent every morning of their holiday. Still, on this morning, she was thankful for it. As she moved about the bungalow, she kept her eyes peeled for activity out the back windows.

She finally saw him mid-morning, his feet pacing in the surf, a small bouquet of orange blossoms and leaves in one hand. She paused outside the door to the study, and heard her husband immersed in a conversation with someone heavily titled. Then she hurried outside.

As soon as she emerged from the house, the boy's expression turned from expectant to fearful, and he began to take off in the direction of the infamous pier.

"Wait, please!" she called out, trying to raise her voice above the sound of the ocean without alerting her husband. Despite her caution, and the wind wantonly tossing her words, she knew he had heard her. He kept moving.

"Please, Joseph!"

He stopped dead in his tracks. The voice wrapping melodiously around his full name was so much like Clara's, he almost thought… He turned around to see an older version of his beloved walking briskly toward him, a small box in her hand.

"I thought you might be by." Her eyes studied him closely, unabashedly. He took that as leave to observe her in return. At this shorter distance, he discerned she was older than she looked. Her skin and features lent themselves well to aging gracefully, yet even the aging that had occurred could have been avoided. A vast and endless patience with something in her life had spurred on unnecessary worry lines and had dulled the color in her eyes. He glimpsed the same curiosity that Clara possessed, only in her mother, it was buried much deeper below the surface. If she had once had the same passion for life, it was gone now, and her spirit was broken.

Clara's mother looked the way his own had looked while his biological father was still in their lives.

She held her hand out to him. "I'm Genevieve."

He took her hand. "I am Joe." He hesitated, then amended, "Joseph. I guess you know that."

She smiled. "I do." Her eyes gleamed sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Joseph, but she has already left. Her father and I remained here to finish packing and tie up a few loose ends."

She was gone? They sent her - the girl who was going to have a bodyguard - they sent her on alone? Was he perceived as such a threat that they would risk her safety to remove her from him?

She held out the box to him. "I know she didn't have time to give you this last night." Joe took the box from her. "I didn't look, I promise. Whatever it is, it is private. My husband found it in her room this morning and, assuming it was for you, confiscated it." She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "He thought it best for her to get an early start."

Joe stared at the box in his hand. Clara had left something for him. She had selected it, placed it in this box.

Genevieve was certain he had been with Clara the night before. Her father probably figured the same, but hadn't been sure. If he had been the one to turn on the porch light, looking out the windows for Clara, he would have seen them immediately.

Joe looked at the box again, then at the woman who must have flipped on the light to warn her daughter of her father's impending arrival.

"I know this will sound trite, and be of no comfort to you now, but things do happen for a reason." He looked at her skeptically. "Okay, so I don't believe it myself." Her brow furrowed as she thought carefully about what she truly wanted to say. "I don't know why some things happen. Maybe there is a reason, and maybe not. But we can give things purpose - learning from them, treasuring them even when they are painful. The things that happen to us, that are beyond our control, they don't have to be for naught." She put her hand on his cheek and lifted his face. He had an uncanny feeling that Clara had heard a similar speech, prompted by a reason that was unknown to him. "Faith keeps us moving in the right direction, and sees that wherever we are is where we are meant to be." She dropped her hand and laughed. "A lot of philosophical nonsense, I know. But trust me, please. Love is never for nothing."

For the second time that day, an adult had acknowledged Joe's feelings as real. He nearly fell over at what she said next.

"Not your love, nor hers." She reached out hesitantly, then touched his shoulder briefly. She turned and left him standing on the beach.

Clara loved him, too.

"_Senora_ \- I mean, Genevieve." She paused to give him a chance to catch up to her. He stood in front of her and held out the bouquet. "Please? If it will do no harm, will you…?"

She accepted the blossoms. "I will try," she told him.

He watched Genevieve return to the house without a backward glance toward Joe. When the door closed behind her, he finally remembered the box in his hand. He lifted the lid, and saw the black shell pendant he had made. It had been strung on a dainty silver chain. A piece of paper, folded into a small, thick square with precise corners, was tucked underneath it. He replaced the lid and made his way to the pier. When he reached the end of it, he sat down with his legs hanging over the water. He fastened the necklace around his neck and took the paper from the box. Halfway through unfolding it, he almost laughed at how far he still had to go. Finally, it was back to its original dimensions, and he looked at the willowy lines and curves of the small, elegant script. He read the letter, then read it again and again.

At the age of sixteen, Joe Romero learned that love can hurt even as it heals.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

_This part is coming fast on the heels of chapter 1, but the next (and last) part still needs a great deal of work. Thank you to everyone who has read so far. I hope you're enjoying it!_

_And as always, thank you for your reviews, past and future. :)_

* * *

Dearest Joseph,

If all goes as I hope, you will read this letter after I have sought you out to say a proper good-bye. I shudder to think that our last meeting might have ended with my attempt to forcibly remove you from the premises. Although there is so much I wish I could have told you - so much I _should_ have told you - I am grateful that you trusted me enough to leave, something I needed you to do for your own sake as much as for my own.

If you are reading this letter, then not only will I have succeeded in finding you again, I will also have left your beautiful town, having persuaded you to wait until after my departure to read it. I want nothing more than to stay here with you. I know - it sounds absurd. Who am I to know my own mind at this age, and even more so, to presume to know yours? After all, you might have tolerated me well enough for a week, but perhaps you would tire of me if I moved into the neighborhood. Do you suppose?

Anyway, it is my great fortune (this is some of the sarcasm you heard my father warn me about) to have plenty of people in my life who have taken it upon themselves to know my mind for me. I shall not have to think about what direction I will choose in life. Every last detail has been preordained.

At the beginning of the week, you asked whether the changes would be bad, and I told you truthfully that I did not yet know. I know now. These past five days have been the best of my life, and anything that follows, while it may not actually be bad, will never be good enough. I will never be as happy as I have been here with you.

There is something I want to say, something I have been trying to avoid stating directly, and I am going to continue to avoid it by moving on to another subject.

The chain I used for your seashell belonged to my paternal grandmother, who most likely inherited it from one of her grandmothers. She was not terribly likeable, but she did have excellent taste in jewelry. Until about twenty minutes ago, it held the loveliest pendant of aquamarine, my birthstone. I brought it along because I always wear it on my birthday, which just happened to be Sunday. You were a gift to me, Joseph, as was the evening you spent with me. Thank you so much for that. It was the best birthday ever.

This also means that you are now in possession of a family heirloom. You had better keep it safe for me. There are some members of my family who swear they have been visited by Grandmother's ghost, who is by all accounts very ill-tempered. But not to worry, I'm sure you'll be fine.

I suppose I'm getting to the point where I must be completely honest with you. If you are reading this, then I have already seen you for the last time, so I don't know why I am acting like such a coward. Well, here it goes…

I think I love you, Joseph. Not because you saved me from a dull holiday. Not because you distracted me from the upheaval that is fast approaching. Not because you were loads of fun and a fantastic dancer. Not because I shared my first kiss with you. Not because you are terribly handsome and have an electrifying smile. I love you because you are the kindest, most honorable, most fascinating person I have ever known. You are special, Joseph, and filled with all good things. Please, promise me that you will never settle for less than you deserve. Promise me that someday, should you marry, the person you choose will know just how rare a treasure you are, and will treat you as such.

I also want to make you promise to never forget me, but that would be selfish of me, wouldn't it? Of course, you must move on. I realize there is no way your feelings for me could ever come close to being what mine are for you, and in the great scheme of things, what are five days out of the course of our youth? My head is sensible enough to realize these things. But my heart, which will always belong to you, remains hopeful.

All my love,

C

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read. And thanks to those who have read and reviewed. You have been so super kind. Your feedback has encouraged me to try my best, to keep stepping back to take one more look (or twenty) and to do a little (okay, a lot) more tweaking. Please let me know what you think of the result._

_All grown up, and both of them way too adept at maintaining their composure…_

* * *

The first time he was introduced to Her Majesty Clarisse Marie Mignonette Renaldi, Queen of Genovia, Joseph almost laughed out loud, the image having popped unbidden into his head of a young girl, barefoot and soaked to the skin, her sundress clinging to her as she doubled over with laughter and tried to wring the saltwater out of her long hair. He recovered his composure quickly; he was almost certain no one noticed, yet the way Her Majesty's eyes flashed at him, he couldn't be sure.

He had seen pictures of Genovia's reigning queen, but it wasn't until he was before her, seeing her in person, that he caught a familiar spark in her eyes, and his subconscious was suddenly dredging up memories of Clara.

Clara, his Clara. The slender, lovely, enchanting Clara. The sometimes fierce, sometimes vulnerable Clara who had kissed him in the moonlight at the end of a dilapidated old pier. Now the enormous palace and spacious grounds, the stables and jewels, the heart of a nation, all held by a queen who looked as smooth and cool and impenetrable as sculpted marble. The looming, life-altering changes were summed up in one truth: Clara would marry a prince. In fact, while Clara had been celebrating her fifteenth birthday with Joe on the beach, her soon-to-be-fiancé was twenty-nine years old and living up to his reputation as an irresistible ladies' man.

In the months that followed, he sometimes found himself not just watching the queen, but staring at her in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of the girl he had known all those years ago. Every now and then, he did - in her smiles (the real ones that reached her eyes); in the glow of her complexion when something made her happy; in the laughter she stifled a second too late during her less guarded moments, most often when the princes were around.

The princes. Her sons. She had children.

How like her the princes were. Pierre was fourteen, good-natured with a sharp sense of humor he had learned to keep under wraps when it was appropriate to do so. He had her coloring and grace and poise, and had cultivated the calm demeanor of the mature Clarisse. Philippe, at twelve, was still not quite tame, and in his charming, unruly state, Joe saw the young Clarisse. He wondered how many other people saw the connection between the Ice Queen and her younger, whimsical, slightly wild son.

How unlike their father they seemed to be. Then again, Joe did not have occasion to spend much time with the King, and that was fine with him. He harbored a steadfast jealousy for the handsome, gallant King Rupert that, to his embarrassment, seemed only to increase as the months went by.

It certainly didn't help that she smelled of orange blossoms. The first time he was close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, he nearly fell down at her feet. How could she still have that effect on him? They had been kids, had barely known each other!

Genevieve had been half right: her words actually had offered some comfort to him at the time, but it dwindled as life went on. Especially the part about how love is never for nothing. What did he know of love? He certainly hadn't encountered it in the years that followed, and time eventually eroded his belief in the reality of what had transpired.

Still, he had inexplicably held fast to her in some distant corner of himself, a remnant of innocence, a hope that for a brief time, all had been right with the world and could be again. There were times when Clara, whom fate had long since relegated to his past, was the only reason he had any faith left at all.

Then one day he was introduced to the queen of another country, and he lifted his head from his bowing posture to look his new royal charge in the eye -

He had found her again. He was finally allowed to be her protector. He longed to save her from this stifling existence, to break her out of her confinement, to - dare he utter the cliché? - save her from herself.

He could, if only she knew who he was.

She gave no indication that she recognized him. She did not acknowledge she had even lived a life before this one. So he kept the Clara he had known and still loved in the quiet space within himself, and the hope he had once found in her that used to buoy him up became a weighty thing.

He couldn't bear to leave her again, but he couldn't wait to go.

* * *

Clarisse had not been looking forward to this week with Claude, her bodyguard while Joseph was on holiday. They did not particularly like one another. It was bad enough to have a bodyguard at all, but someone trailing along behind, looking as though he were on his way to be hung up by his toes in the courtyard, was even worse.

Claude would probably prefer being hung up by his toes in the courtyard than to have to keep her company. Well, Clarisse thought grouchily, that made two of them.

However, she was not certain she was ready for Joseph to come back either. Spending a week with his family during the annual Orange Blossom Festival (and she knew it was the Orange Blossom Festival; she marked it discreetly on her calendar every year) could jog his memory, and she didn't know how to prepare for that scenario. It was a conversation she did not want to have, and since he did not seem to recognize her, seemed to have no recollection of her at all, she saw no reason to broach the subject.

She had known the moment the head of royal security introduced her new bodyguard three months prior. He was so like the boy she had met more than twenty years ago - his eyes, his mannerisms, soft-spoken with a husky voice. Dreamy, she had thought when she was a love struck fifteen-year old girl.

Still dreamy. She hated to admit it, but he was. Now when he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners, making her knees almost buckle. His voice was huskier still. And what was the story behind the earring? Rupert had not thought it appropriate, but Clarisse, who secretly loved the earring, waved it off, hoping she came across as indifferent, or mildly amused at the most. Because of all the words there were to describe the hopeless jumble of feelings within her, "indifferent" and "mildly amused" were not among them.

At least her father had taken possession of the box with the shell and letter, though she had despised him for it at the time. That letter! What had she written in it? Things she was glad Joseph had never read.

Except that it was all true, and had remained so. And he would never know, which caused her to breathe a small sigh of relief and made her heart ache at the same time.

She walked slowly toward her office, then took a detour into the portrait gallery. No need to rush to any of the usual places where she would risk running into Claude and deterring them from their shared goal of avoiding each other. She continued on through the hall at an unhurried pace until she reached the first official portrait of her and Rupert. There she was, sitting placidly while her husband and king stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder, his posture impossibly regal.

It wasn't that her appearance had changed radically. She still looked much the same physically, but her royal demeanor had solidified. She recalled the morning she stood in the bridal chamber at the back of the cathedral, an ethereal beauty, the crown prince's eighteen-year old bride. She knew she had been molded into something elegant and majestic, but it was not until Genevieve entered the chamber that she realized she had become someone unrecognizable. After bitter years of trying to come to terms with her destiny, it was the shock in her mother's eyes that was nearly her undoing.

The moment when, her transformation complete, Clarisse's mother gasped at the stranger before her.

The look still haunted her dreams, and even now, she sometimes woke up in tears. If she could fool her own mother with her royal disguise, no wonder Joseph had no idea she was the giggling, waltzing teenager he had kissed on the pier in a previous life.

* * *

Marisela poked her head into the living room. At first she did not see her son, as he was buried under a pile of rambunctious children - three nephews and one tomboy niece.

"Joe, I want you to take a look at that box I have in your room."

"Sure, Mama." His voice was muffled and he sounded out of breath. "What's in it?"

"I was going through the closet in that room, and I found a few things of yours. I put them all in a box for you." She smiled at her son, the only one of her offspring who had not settled down and started a family of his own. The favorite uncle and child-magnet whenever her family all got together again.

"No problem. I can take care of that now. Just let me get rid of a few things -" In one impressive movement, he heaved himself up mightily from the floor, and kids of various ages and sizes fell off him, laughing and scrambling to their feet in order to launch back onto him. He held up his hands in surrender. "Uncle Joe needs a little break."

Ignoring the staggered chorus of, "Aw, Uncle Joe," he made his escape for the stairs and the solitude of his old room. He would be alone in it, at least for now. Later tonight, his sisters' children, all rolled up in sleeping bags, would be snuggled against Joe, who would graciously eschew the bed in order to be their giant communal pillow.

The cardboard box was sitting on the cozy bed he never got to sleep in anymore. He sat down on the creaky mattress (it always gave him away in the middle of the night if he tried to sneak onto it, and without fail, at least one pair of small arms would reach out in the darkness to pull him back to the floor) and opened the box. School books, mostly; a folder of newspaper clippings that he couldn't for the life of him see what had interested him at the time he decided to save them; a few small toy cars and trucks that had miraculously survived his childhood in fair condition.

Tucked into a corner at the bottom was the small box from Clara. His heart leapt at the sight.

Just like that, he was trembling like a sixteen-year old boy again, reaching nervously for the box he had lost track of some years ago. For awhile, it had come along with him wherever he went, but when he joined the army, he had been afraid the contents were becoming too frail. He had entrusted it to his parents when he returned on leave for a visit, and his mother had put it in a "safe place" - so safe that none of them could find it again upon his return to civilian life.

He opened the box. The seashell was still there, looking a little brittle, but no less beautiful. He removed it carefully and clasped the silver chain around his neck. Then he pulled out the letter and, as he had done a hundred times before, unfolded it reverently. He read through the words, his eyes caressing the handwriting that was now familiar to him; not just because he had spent so many hours studying the letter, but because he saw it at work, mostly little suggestions or notes of revision scattered in the margins of daily agendas or travel itineraries.

Suddenly, he realized he couldn't go on pretending. No matter what the consequences might be, he had to ask.

He tucked the seashell into his shirt. He folded the letter and put it back into the box, which he slipped into his pants pocket. He walked down the stairs toward the kitchen. "Mama, Papa, I'm going for a little walk."

"Promise to be back in time for dinner?" his mother asked. It was hard to coordinate travel arrangements for the scattered, grown-up Romeros and their families around major holidays. So once a year, they met back for the Orange Blossom Festival, which roughly coincided with their parents' wedding anniversary. It was easily the most important and celebrated holiday in their family: the day their mother had found the husband she deserved, and her children had gained the father-protector they had dreamed about, but not really believed existed. Tonight was the official dinner and traditional mini-wedding cake cutting.

"Of course. It's why I'm here. I wouldn't miss the festivities for anything."

"Watch out, Joe!" warned his father. "You are about to come under attack!"

Joe looked behind him in time to see a battalion of youngsters bearing down on him, and he took off running, narrowly making his escape through the front door.

* * *

Clarisse ambled through the garden, the soft, new-spring breeze ruffling past her. It was a quiet, serene evening. Next weekend, the place would be bursting with activity and the preparations for her annual belated birthday ball. For now, she relished the peaceful atmosphere, the scent of roses and…orange blossoms?

Footsteps crunched quietly behind her on the gravel walk. She spun around, startled to find she was not alone.

"Joseph! I wasn't expecting to see you back until Monday morning."

He stood in front of her, his hands behind his back.

"Didn't you miss me?"

She wasn't quite sure how to answer, and before she could think of something, he pulled one hand from behind his back. He was holding a bouquet of white orange blossoms among shiny green leaves.

"I am sorry for staring. You are beautiful." He smiled gently at her as her heart skipped a beat. "But there is something missing. Orange blossoms, perhaps? Tucked behind your ears to make you look like a flower child."

He held the bouquet out to her, and she hoped he didn't notice how her hands shook as she took it from him. "You remember."

"I do. How long have you known?"

"Almost immediately."

"Me, too."

"It just seemed so impossible -"

"I know. And you looked so…"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Yes?"

He laughed. "Just so…queenly."

She laughed, too. "Yes. I get that a lot."

"There's something else." He moved his hands to his shirt collar and began undoing the top buttons.

Clarisse's eyes widened slightly and she looked around uncomfortably. "Um, Joseph?"

He stifled a laugh at her expression. Stopping after three buttons, he reached into his shirt to pull out the silver chain with the seashell pendant.

Clarisse gasped and her eyes grew even wider. "Joseph! You have it!" She reached out to take the shell in her hand, turning it over to be sure of what she was seeing. Then she looked up at him. "How did you get this? Father took it from me, I was convinced he had dropped it in the trash or hurled it into the ocean or subjected it to some similarly cruel fate."

"Your mother." Another sharp intake of breath from Clarisse. Her hand flew to cover her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. How much she missed her mother every day, and now it felt as though she were standing with them, presiding over this extraordinary reunion. "She saw me lurking about the morning you left, and came out with this."

An alarming thought struck Clarisse. Attempting to be casual, she asked, "She, um, gave you the pendant?"

He knew what she was thinking. "She gave me a small box with the pendant inside."

"Oh."

"If you're wondering whether I also have the letter -" He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small folded paper square. Clarisse didn't know whether to jump for joy or crawl under a rock. "- I do. And yes, I read it. Lots."

"Oh," she said again.

They were silent while she stared at the letter and he stared at her. Finally, Clarisse spoke up.

"Of course, we were just children. Such a long time ago…"

"We were. And it was." He took a step closer to her. He put his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her, touching her face, her hair, her arms. "There is something you should know. In your letter, it was clear you didn't know how I felt. You thought it wasn't likely I returned your feelings, but you were wrong. Very, very wrong."

Every time Clarisse thought she had beaten back the tears, they surged forward with renewed vigor. "Joseph, I don't know what to say -"

He shook his head. "It isn't necessary. I am just glad I found you again." He knew she was fighting to hold onto her composure, and he decided to try and lighten the mood. "And that I never received a visit from your grandmother. Although," his brow wrinkled with concern, "there have been some strange things I've never been able to explain…"

It worked, at least a little. Just as the first traitorous tear spilled over, she laughed, keeping the others in their place. "I did wonder about that over the years. I was hoping if my giving you the chain irritated her, that she would come after me instead of you."

"Why did you shorten your name?"

"I don't know. I guess I wanted it to sound more Spanish. After all, when in Spain, -"

"- give yourself a Spanish name."

"Yes. I wanted to fit in." She looked embarrassed when he smirked at her. "I didn't fit in, did I?"

"No, you definitely stood out." Her face relayed her chagrin. "But I assure you, in every best way possible."

She looked at him gratefully. "Oh Joseph, I -" She broke off, biting her lip in a moment of indecision, and her eyes sparkled like they had all those years ago. Then she was in motion, flinging herself forward and throwing her arms around his neck.

At the age of thirty-eight, with the girl in his arms again, Joe Romero's faith was restored in full, and he remembered what bliss life could hold. They stood together only a few moments before she pushed away in search of a more appropriate stance.

She looked at the shell necklace again. "I still have mine, tucked in the drawer of my desk. With some pressed orange blossoms my mother passed on to me." She gave him a meaningful smile.

He felt a lump in his throat and lifted a silent thank-you heavenward from his heart and hoped Genevieve would somehow receive it.

Then he noticed Clarisse's eyes had a mischievous glint, and she said, "You had so much hair back then!"

"Oh, thanks. You know, I could say the same about you."

She laughed, a sound that was completely free and made him as happy as it had when they were teenagers. "I had it cut just before you started here. It caused quite a stir."

"I'll bet." He took a chance and ventured into more uncertain territory. "You were my first kiss, too."

"No, I wasn't. I don't believe you."

"Yes, you were."

"You were older than I was."

"I still am, but only by a year."

"Yes, but you were so handsome and, I don't know, seemed so…mature."

"I was quiet and reserved, and when we first met, I couldn't even speak."

"You warmed up quickly enough." She leaned back to study him some more. "There was none of this." She reached out toward his beard, stopping short of actually touching it.

He rubbed his goatee. "What? You mean you couldn't tell? I had a week's worth of whiskers when I met you."

She laughed again. "And no black. If I recall, your wardrobe was a veritable rainbow of colors."

Joseph rolled his eyes. "That was my mother. I had been wearing black since I was fifteen. She had hoped it was a phase, but at sixteen, I hadn't grown out of it, and she worried it was a sign that all the rock music I was listening to had started eroding my soul. One day while I was at school, she went through my closet and my drawers, pulled out anything black, and replaced it all with the atrocities you saw me sporting."

"That is the funniest thing I have ever heard. Ever. In my life."

"Alright, just be cool, don't spread it around." He waited until her un-queenly giggling subsided, then held his hand out to her. "Will you dance with me?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Do you know how to dance to this music?"

"I know how to dance to all the music," he boasted, pulling her into a spin.

They fit together, comfortable and familiar. "You've gotten better at dancing," she told him.

"I've gotten better at a lot of things." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Joseph!" He snickered at her shocked expression. "Anyway, I don't want to hear about it. I had hoped you were pining away somewhere, determined to save yourself for me on the off-chance we would meet up again."

"That's what I did, my dear married friend and mother of two."

"Touché."

He chuckled. "You were very generous in your letter with your description of me. I'm afraid most of the women in my life would have disagreed with you. Then again, perhaps I was being unfair, comparing them to someone else."

She didn't know what to say, so she rested her head on his shoulder as he led her around the imaginary dance floor to the echoes of a Spanish song only they could hear.

"We were friends, weren't we?" he asked softly. It was an understatement, of course, but true. What they had professed all those years ago for one another, however indirectly, had no place in their current situation, and both were acutely aware that the same thrill still rippled through them when they were close.

"Yes, we were. Which was important to me. I didn't have friends." They were both quiet again, trying to reconcile their past with the present. "I still am lacking friends."

"I am, too. Sort of a loner."

"Would you like one? Some loners are happier without them."

"I may be a loner, but I'm not a fool. If a beautiful, charming, sarcastic woman wants to be my friend, I am going to say yes. What about you?"

"A queen should never pass up the opportunity to make friends with an accomplished dancer. In fact, you will have to dance with me at my birthday ball."

"It is tradition for us to dance on your birthday."

"Joseph," Clarisse said sadly, lifting her head to look at him. "I think the song is ending."

He understood; they had certainly pushed all decorum aside for too long. He winked at her. "This one is, anyway," he whispered. They broke apart, and started walking slowly back to the palace. "I noticed you were alone out here."

"Let's just say, Claude and I came to an arrangement of sorts."

"It's still hard to keep track of you."

"Didn't you know where I was?"

"I do now," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "Didn't you miss me?"

"So much."

They walked on in silence for awhile.

"About the earring…?"

Joseph grinned. "Ah, now that's a good story."

_The End_


End file.
